Raven Bach
by TheHumanCanvas
Summary: Life is dragging sluggishly by for Sherlock as Baker Street cherishes a peace it hasn't experienced in weeks. Until he's faced with the most dangerous case yet that has frightening power to corrupt everything Sherlock's ever known... No slash.


**A/N: Hello world! Well, well. This is going to be a very different sort of experience for me, since NEVER have I EVER attempted to write a fanfiction for Sherlock. However, I'm extremely excited about writing this story, because I feel that it'll really stretch my writing skills, considering I've never written anything related to crime before. It'll certainly be a challenge – I only discovered 'Sherlock' for the first time very recently, you see, so I haven't had as much time as I'd like to really get a grasp of it in my head, but I simply couldn't put this off. My best friend invited me over to hers and we watched the whole series so far in one afternoon/night, and yes, I fell in love instantly! I couldn't wait to write something about Sherlock, so I'm just going to have to hope that I do alright for a first shot. But I'm sure Zara (my best friend) will tell me if I don't, since she can be very outspoken at times, lol! And while we're on the subject, I may as well mention that this fanfiction is written for Zara (aka x TheDreamingDove x) since I know she's just been dying to have someone portray her in this way! Yep, that's right. I decided to add her in as one of the characters to add a little flavour to the story. This should be fun!**

**Everything that you'll read about her is true, and the only differences I've made are to enhance a few of her personality traits. But only a little, since she's quite sufficient for this story just the way she is in real life! **

**I really hope this fic goes well, but Zara, I want you to enjoy this more than anyone else. I mean, you are in it, and it wouldn't be very good for my health if I made a mistake with your character. Nah, that's not true. I mean I am a little worried about that, but I mostly want you to like it because I know how much you've been looking forward to this, and I really don't want to let you down :)**

**Please take note, this story is post Reichenbach and has ****NO**** slash.**

**So, sit back, grab a cup of tea and an Oreo, and relax while you read!**

**Happy reading! :D**

**~Ailsa**

The whole room trembled in sync with the great Sherlock Holmes. The whole room. The whole of 221B.

The whole of blooming Baker Street, most likely.

The television rumbled and rocked with spasms like an out-of-order forensics chemist at Bart's Morgue.

The abused china rattled, shaking in its boots in several piles of the 'forgotten' on the kitchen table. Every chink of glass – and whatever else they make cups out of these days – was painfully significant.

The ground shook like thunder, threatening to produce a black, bottomless hole any second.

Ornaments fell rhythmically to the floor – never missing a beat – one, followed by another, followed by a skull.

All in complete and perfect time.

Almost as though the routine had been thoroughly choreographed with a pattern so complicated and thought out that the rhythm weaved in and out of the main tune.

A bomb site that was perfect in every way.

An authoritative melody made disastrous yet mind blowing by a whirlwind of harmonies.

Like a hurricane of music, kept both grounded and turned mad by the melody – the great Sherlock Holmes – who was in himself neither Mozart nor chaos.

But then, he wouldn't be Sherlock if he were sane.

A piercing ray of morning sunlight beamed through the half shut window, illuminating the composer as he danced in the dark.

His face was blank; completely void of emotion, save for an irritated glint in his eye that quite contradicted his lips. His lips that were slanted in a lazy frown, suggesting a childlike 'can't-be-damned' attitude. What on earth was going through his head, it's impossible to say.

He stared down at the offending creature in the middle of the room that seemed utterly out of place in a detective's flat. His face held such a fixed gaze that if you were to really observe his peculiar expression, you could almost say it was closer to a glare.

That is, if you were lucky enough to possess his skills in deduction – the science of deduction, he called it.

So then, it's hardly a surprise when Dr John Watson walked in that he once again questioned his friend's humanity – the moment he laid his incredulous eyes on the children's punch bag that most certainly was not there half an hour ago.

And had anyone else seen Sherlock throw such a ludicrous number of kicks and punches at the innocent bag in such a ludicrous fashion, they should have unequivocally had him committed immediately.

But the sensible, phlegmatic Dr Watson had been flat-sharing with the detective long enough that he was well used to such displays of madness.

But that didn't mean to say he understood such odd behaviour.

John stared with wide eyes and an inert, granite stance, motionless. It took him a moment or two to force some movement into his dry, gaping mouth. But when he did, there was no denying his obvious shock and a little concern.

"Sherlock, where the hell did you get that?"

"Have a good walk, John?" he mumbled gratingly, almost inaudibly, in response, characteristically ignoring the question.

"It was nice. A little cold for May, but…" he faltered, then chuckled once in amused disbelief. "You noticed I was gone."

Sherlock grunted.

John shook his head in amazement, and then seemingly remembered about the abuse this brightly coloured, cheerful punch bag was receiving, judging by the returned look of shock in his eye. "But, honest to god, Sherlock. _What_ are you doing?" He shifted his weight onto his left foot, puzzled.

"The bag had it coming."

"Apparently, but so did the wall, not too long ago, and I don't see what either of them did to you."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "As I've said before, John, you see, you just don't observe."

John resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.

"The bag is ridiculously non-responsive." He continued. "I punch the living hell out of it – stupid creature – and it just sits there smiling at me."

"So what did the wall do?"

"Live."

John narrowed his eyes. "I see."

Sherlock turned to look at him for the first time. "Do you?"

"Not really."

Sherlock nodded, distracted.

"But the bag didn't sit smiling while you were punching the living hell out of it-"

"Yes it did." Sherlock interrupted, in an insolent tone.

John stared at Sherlock for a moment. "May I finish?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue.

"The bag didn't sit smiling _while _you were punching the living hell out of it" John stressed the **while**, "_until _you _started _punching the living hell out of it" John pointed out, challenging the proper genius to a proper answer.

No answer.

John began to wonder if Sherlock was feeling a little out of things today, for this was a different type of silence than he was used to. It was more dragged-out somehow, he pinpointed. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" he asked, seriously.

Sherlock suddenly slumped to the floor and began rocking himself back and forth like a small child, hugging his knees tightly to his chest. "Bored" he grumbled.

This time, John didn't hold back with a roll of his eyes, but he thought about what Sherlock had said. "You know," he thought out loud, "maybe you wouldn't get so bored without a murder to investigate if you got yourself a girl."

Sherlock appeared to consider this for a moment, but then stated "Not my area."

However, John was doggedly persistent. He went to sit down in one of the two comfortable armchairs that the flat boasted – the one nearest to where the skull usually posed self-centredly to be specific – and leaned forward, clasping his hands together in thought. "Well, just think about it, Sherlock."

Sherlock fell swiftly backwards until he was lying splayed out on the floor.

"I mean it" John addressed him, with a little more authority in his tone than before.

"No you don't" Sherlock contradicted, curtly.

"Why do you think that?" John tilted his head a little to the right, curiously.

"Dear Watson" Sherlock huffed. "I don't think. I know."

A small, amused smile played softly on John's lips. Sherlock could be such a baby. "How?"

"Science of deduction" was his short, off-hand answer.

"Pleased to hear that it's working for you" John mumbled, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Sherlock ignored him.

Then a single thought suddenly popped into John's head. "What about Molly?" A brainwave and a half, to be sure.

"What?" Sherlock's head popped up like the cap of a shaken up bottle of sprite.

John spoke slowly, as he would with a kid, for it was a well known fact that Sherlock Holmes was ignorant. "Molly's a sweet girl; always running around trying to help you all she can, whether it's fetching you a coffee, or assisting you with faking your own suicide." John cringed a little at the memory, then continued.

"She obviously adores you, I mean, there isn't an awful lot of chance of her doing so much for the rest of us as she does for you. But you barely even notice she's there half the time. It'd make her day if you merely smiled at her from across the room, probably. Why don't you take her out somewhere nice for a change? It'd do you both some good to get away from things for a while."

This was the longest speech that Sherlock had ever heard John make. He blinked twice, completely clueless, and a small crease formed in his forehead. "Molly _Hooper_?"

John internally groaned. "Yes, Sherlock, who else would I be talking about?"

Sherlock remained completely still – as though he had been carved out of stone – the only motion in his body being the continuous flutter of his eyelids.

"Oh, come on" John sighed, exasperated. "You have to have seen how besotted she is with you."

"Molly Hooper's besotted with me?"

"Yes, you dazzle the girl senseless. You honestly haven't noticed?"

"I dazzle Molly Hooper?" he persisted, incredulous.

John sighed and leaned heavily back in the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He kept his eyes tightly shut. "Forget it, Sherlock. Just…" he breathed deeply in; his eyes remaining shut "forget I ever said anything."

Sherlock nodded, and his head flopped back down again like a tired pancake.

John cautiously opened his eyes and chucked quietly, just once. "You know what, Sherlock? I give up. You're a hopeless case." A few more fond chuckled threatened to escape his chest.

A mini, crooked smile found its way to Sherlock's face. He said nothing.

John smiled and picked up a newspaper that was resting on the arm of the chair. _Sherlock will be Sherlock_, he thought to himself, his eyes crinkling with true fondness for his friend.

A moment of quiet passed between the unlikely pair.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock paused. "Still bored."

John didn't even raise his eyes from the paper. "Amuse yourself then."

There was silence.

John frowned slightly. Did Sherlock really have no idea what to do? He started to wonder if peace in Baker Street was honestly better than staying up all night exhausting oneself over a murder mystery. At least crime kept his friend occupied for a while.

There was more silence.

And then Mrs Hudson buzzed into the room.

"Sherlock," she protested emphatically "what's that punch bag doing in here?" She floated over to the empty arm chair and sat herself down with her hands resting comfortably on her lap.

Sherlock's head lifted a fraction.

"Do you have anything useful to say Mrs Hudson? He enquired in a flat tone.

John shook his head across the room at Sherlock's blatantly rude comment.

But Mrs Hudson did not seem offended so much as exasperated with the man she practically considered her own son. She sighed. "Well, if you'd pick yourself up off that filthy floor, then perhaps I'd tell you, dear."

Sherlock groaned.

Mrs Hudson glowered in a motherly fashion into the back of his head, but continued anyway. "You're going to love this one, Sherlock. It's right up your street!" She shifted her position in the chair so she could see both Sherlock and John while she was talking. "There's been a murder, boys. Well, more than one, actually. Lestrade says there have been six cases in the last month, can you imagine it? He says it's nothing of course, I mean, there's no _apparent _connection between the victims…"

Sherlock was up off the floor in an instant.

John blinked twice.

Mrs Hudson laughed when all of a sudden, there was Sherlock, kneeling inches from her face, his eyes burning with unconcealed curiosity and excitement, like nothing she or John had seen since Moriarty had been discovered alive a few weeks ago.

"Where did Lestrade say the latest body is?" Sherlock demanded, his whole body trembling slightly.

"Some street two bus stops away, I believe. He didn't mention the exact location." She answered.

Mrs Hudson gasped in shock when she felt his lips press almost roughly onto her cheek on spur of moment.

"Yes!" he sang at the top of his voice. "Finally something fun around here!"

And he was already making his way to where his coat was slung untidily over a kitchen chair.

"John, pick up my phone, will you?" He yelled across the flat.

But John folded his arms tightly to his chest in annoyance and ignored Sherlock's request, strolling out the room after Mrs Hudson, who had left as soon as she got over her momentary shock. This time, Sherlock could jolly well go and pick up his own phone.

Sherlock took no notice of his friend's irritation and shrugged, sweeping over to get it himself – for once.

And as soon as John and Mrs Hudson were out of hearing distance, there began an odd pecking noise at the window.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

He whipped carelessly round to the source of the noise, only to see that the window sill was now occupied by a rather superior looking raven.

Sherlock frowned.

The bird was beautiful – there was no denying that. Sleek, black feathers like they had been dipped in ink. It looked as though it would be softer than satin.

A perfectly toned body – not too fat, not to thin. Just perfect.

No issues with finding food then.

It projected a first class position. Royalty, almost. The bird was obviously well-bred. It stood tall, almost looking down on Sherlock.

But none of these things caught Sherlock's attention.

The creature had a menacing edge to it – a dark edge. And the look in its eye was rather unsettling.

It was a look of intelligence.

Real intelligence.

The bird could almost be described to have a rather _human _perspective.

And it was watching him.

Closely.

Was it wild? Sherlock didn't see how it could be. Not an animal that looked at him like _that_, with such suspicion and revulsion. If such a thing were even possible for a bird.

But stranger yet was the gift that the raven brought with it.

Tangled somehow in its feathers, was a reasonably long length of rather fowl looking bloody barbed wire, and it looked as though it had been dipped in someone's fresh blood not minutes ago.

And yet the bird made no move to escape the wire.

_A sign_,Sherlock thought to himself. There was no other rational explanation. _But of what?_

Neither bird nor man moved a muscle.

At length, Sherlock managed to tear his eyes away from the peculiar looking bird and began to walk in large strides – which took great effort - in the opposite direction, towards the door. _A murder awaits_ he kept chanting to himself, over and over. But it was no use. He simply had to peek back at the window.

The raven was still staring at him. And its eyes were glinting wickedly.

**A/N: So, how did I do?**

**Six murders in one month? Say it isn't true! And what on earth is up with that creepy little raven tangled in bloody barbed wire? All will be revealed!**

**Review! I have cookies! *waves a cookie* xox**


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